


The Ornery Outcast

by aPaperCupCut



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), Don't Starve (Video Game), Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Crossover, Dual wielding! Tried to write in snickets style and my own, Gen, The Baudelaires are a bit ooc sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 04:02:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10070582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aPaperCupCut/pseuds/aPaperCupCut
Summary: Dear Reader,In every life you may live, in every facet of existence you may undergo, there are those blemishes that haunt you and fix you square in your seat, unable to move. Suffice to say, this account of one of the Baudelaire children’s numerous misfortunes is not one of those blemishes. Instead, here is a tale sure to waste your time as surely as it wasted the Baudelaires’.In this sad, pointless excursion from the Baudelaires’ already sad, tumultuous lives, there is a Machine, a pariah with bad hygiene, a crooked house, a mailman off route, a feud between fungi and mold, and a clean teething ring.I have pledged to record the lives of the Baudelaire children, every mishap and every detour, every misfortune and every smelly, confusing adult that watched them with blurry-yet-focused eyes. But as a last note to you, if you prefer a story with a fine villain and heroes with beautiful futures, I implore you to put this down and search elsewhere.With all due respect,Lemony Snicket





	

Everyone makes mistakes - useless mistakes, ones which waste a whole lot of time and accomplish nothing. I have no doubt you are making one now, reading such a regrettable account of one such mistake. It was a ridiculous one, leading nowhere and meaningless in the end. Regardless, the Baudelaire children were going to have to waste time on the fruitless excursion.

 

They were driving up a dreadfully pockmarked road, narrow and bumpy. Violet, Klaus, and Sunny looked on with tired expressions. Evergreens, dusty and leering, loomed over them. They tried not to feel too claustrophobic.

 

“Don't worry, Baudelaires! I've sent several messages ahead of time, so I believe you will receive quite the welcome. He may live out of the way, but he was quite the party animal in our youth!”

 

A party animal, dear readers, is someone who drinks a little too much at a dull party full of very boring and very tense people, resulting in embarrassment for said party animal and cruel amusement in said boring people. Oft times the party animal is then expected to get drunk and obnoxious at every party they attend thereafter. The Baudelaires highly doubted that Mr. Poe had ever met such a person or would even spend his time - which he assured the Baudelaires was full of counting coins - in the company of said person.

 

Mr. Poe hacked something up again, glancing away just in time to miss the signs cluttering the sides of the narrow mountain road.

 

Violet, Klaus, and Sunny, however, did not. Least to say, they were not assured by the many, many, many warnings to “Stay off of property! Genius at Work!” and etcetera.

 

Mr. Poe had quite run out of ideas, and was getting desperate. While he had not yet told the Baudelaires where they would be staying, who they were staying with, or even how long it would last, it was clear that the stay would be temporary. The Baudelaires did not have high hopes for it; too many times burned, they felt, had curbed that impulse. Dear readers, I beg you to realize that this tale, despite offering a confusing and ultimately useless respite from the Baudelaires’ dreadful lives, is unfortunately meaningless and hopeless to you as well. Seek your enjoyment elsewhere, please; avert your eyes from the sad sight that is a child slowly losing hope for their future.

 

As the Baudelaires swallowed the hard rock of trepidation and anxiety, Mr. Poe brought the car to a sudden halt. A tree was in front of the car.

 

“What in the world is a tree doing in front of the car?” Mr. Poe coughed out.

 

It grew out of the center of the road, taking up whatever remaining breathing space that was left. A sickening feeling was already overwhelming the unfortunate Baudelaires.

 

“This should be no problem - we'll just drive around it, won't we, children?”

 

The Baudelaires tried not to grimace too hard. You see, the little space left to the sides of the tree was much too narrow, as the surrounding trees created a wall that felt as though it was slowly collapsing on them. I doubt you would find a thicker, more coldly apathetic forest anywhere.

 

But Mr. Poe backed up the car, carefully maneuvering it to face that crudely shaped aperture. He began to move forward. The Baudelaires braced themselves.

 

A crashing curtain of needles waved down from the branches, but whatever miraculous being that you, the reader, may believe in, normally so cruel to the Baudelaire orphans, looked down and gave them mercy. Mr. Poe’s car squeezed around the tree mostly unscathed.

 

‘Unscathed’ here means narrowly avoiding being crushed or speared by thousands of unforgiving, painful tree branches, killing most of the passengers in the vehicle. And the incidents did not stop there; the further they traveled, the further the road crumbled. It almost seemed as though there was no road at all when the banker finally stopped.

 

Violet climbed out first, reluctant to wake her sleeping brother and sister. They needed all the sleep they could get. She gazed up, unnerved and uneasy, all words which invoke an unpleasant future for the girl. I assure you, her suspicions were unfounded but her doubts and concerns were not.

 

The construction was tall, looking as though someone had thrown boards together haphazardly and called it a house. There were several windows, all broken and all no doubt drafty. The door was shut, and the handle dusty. The window at the very highest room was bright, and clunking sounds and whirring emitted from the round crevice bleakly.

 

Violet thought her own future was bleak enough without having this laddled onto her shoulders as well.

 

At this point, Mr. Poe hacked up another lung and awoke the two sleeping children. Violet held the tired, irritable Sunny within no time, and Klaus was rubbing his eyes when Mr. Poe sauntered up to the unused door. ‘Sauntered’ means to walk confidently, which Klaus felt was quite misplaced given that the man they were meeting was no doubt a reclusive lunatic that would force the three children into many unpleasant and horrid chores. I must remind you here that Count Olaf, while certainly a smart, egotistical maniac, was not a recluse. Despite this stark difference, Klaus felt as though they would be meeting a carbon copy of the despicable man just behind that door.

 

But as Mr. Poe knocked shortly on the door, inciting a surprised yelp and a loud crash to issue from the recesses of the rickety shack, Sunny whispered into her sister's ear; “Nham?”

 

Now, like many babies, Sunny could speak in a translatable language that her siblings could understand. What she said was something Violet felt a surprising amount of hope for: she had claimed that the house had the faint scent of parchment, of a library. Even if the man was horrid, if Sunny was right and he had a library, then maybe it wouldn't be so bad. I must say that she was correct; even on the darkest days a diverse library will cheer me, even after reading letters best left forgotten.

 

But this was quickly forgotten, just like the letters should be, when the door opened.

 

* * *

 

Wilson was just insetting the last fragment, his tongue lingering on the scab just above his upper lip.

 

His hyperfocus, combined with the clattering Machine and Maxwell's chattering (dear lords, did the man _ever_ shut up?), muffled the sounds of an automobile approaching.

 

A loud pound - or it seemed loud; it was certainly unusual - shattered his concentration. He dropped the fragment with a yelp, jerking up and smacking his crown against the underside of the machine when the fragment landed on his shoeless toes.

 

With a thousand curses pouring out on his light breath, Wilson stomped down the ladder, then down the stairs, then down the hall.

 

Who did they think they were? Didn't they see the signs?!

 

He slammed the door open, then bit his lip when it squished his fingers against the wall with its weight.

 

“Hm-hm.”

 

He swore loudly, flapping his hand in a futile effort to soothe the injury.

 

_“Hm-hm!”_

 

He glared at the intruders.

 

And nearly pissed his poor trousers.

 

So maybe he hadn't been getting out much, but he was justified - nay, he should've been _expected_ to react like that.

 

Arthur Poe hadn't been the best of _pals_ with Wilson, nor one of the most popular. A dull man, set in his dull path and dull in his nature. Wilson tried not to grit his teeth.

 

It was just like the banker to ignore his signs! He'd come calling several times before, interrupting his work and setting his progress back by weeks.

 

“I see you've cleaned up quite a bit! How kind of you, Mr. Higgsbury!”

 

Wilson hadn't cleaned up at all. He resisted scratching his scruff - Poe was just being dull, like always.

 

“And I see you've brought children along with you this time. How irresponsible.” Wilson was a little too preoccupied at the moment. Perhaps he'd get a hint and leave?

 

“Ah, see, that's just what I've come for!”

 

He guessed not.

 

Poe’s bright expression slowly crumpled under Wilson’s irritable glare.

 

“You…. You _did_ get the messages, didn't you?”

 

Wilson tried to not sigh but failed.

 

“I've told you, _I don't have a phone._ I haven't had one for weeks _._ I'm **_busy_** _.”_

 

He reached to slam the door.

 

“Ah! Wait! Do you remember that - uh, that phone call I made to you just last month?”

 

“No, I do not, and I suggest you desist immediately, before I resort to unpleasant methods!”

 

“It's just for a short while - just ‘til I've got somewhere else for them to stay. Polly’s got her plate full and --”

 

Wilson, damn his bleeding heart, looked around the door.

 

Three children stared back at him, eyes round as the moon and fear apparent in their faces. The tall one had an expression of stone, the shorter one was twisted up in some emotion Wilson couldn't be bothered to name, and the small one gazed back at him with a curious thousand yard stare.

 

Oh geeze.

 

* * *

 

One thing every single person must know, including you, dearest reader, is that recluses are recluses for many small and many confusing, arbitrary reasons. Perhaps it's too noisy amongst company, even company that they care about, or perhaps it's just too much of a bother to put on the faces everyone needs and wants from each other. Whatever the reason, recluses always have at least one weakness. For Mr. Wilson Percival Higgsbury, that weakness was children and certain persistent dull fellows, although it was unlikely he would ever admit it.

 

Children were strange, confusing things to the hermit, acting on thoughts he would never understand and yet drawing sympathy from him even when it was not required or even needed. To be truthful, I believe the man wished to save them from realizing just how cruel and cold the world truly is, and wanted, with all his heart, to protect the confusing things from ever experiencing what he had. But Wilson Percival Higgsbury was a mystery, one which was so pointless to uncover that it was, in turn, meaningless to waste any more time deciphering.

 

Violet kept her brother quiet, knowing, just I have told you, that many recluses have their little loopholes. Despite her own anxieties about the stranger, she felt, almost in her gut, that they would be safe here. After all, he had a library, and even if he was awful they'd at least have somewhere to hide. Going back with Mr. Poe seemed much worse than just toughing it out with the stranger.

 

Sunny, however, wasn't kept quiet.

 

“Erum-da.”

 

The man with the strange hair and dirty face blinked.

 

“Did that baby just _speak?”_

 

“Oh come now, Mr. Higgsbury, we _all_ know that babies can't speak!” Mr. Poe chirruped cheerfully, once more assured that his plan was on track. He snorted, disgustingly, sneezing into his handkerchief.

 

The man squinted, but let it go. Here ‘let it go’ does not refer to any song you may have some passing familiarity with, but instead means that Mr. Higgsbury would not be letting it go, when, or even if, he ever recalled it.

 

The three Baudelaire children gazed up at the confusing figure that they would no doubt be residing with. He cut a rather eccentric impression, with wild black hair, streaked with white and speckled with early gray. He wore frayed clothes, and an acidic smell wafted off him. Needless to say, the Baudelaires were not impressed.

 

Mr. Poe, however, was undeterred. He pushed past the little man and entered the shack. The Baudelaires followed, but not without caution. The wood flooring creaked under their weight, and the acidic smell, so faint on the little stranger, grew so strong that Klaus had to force himself not to cover his nose. Violet covered Sunny’s, worried that the smell was some hazardous gas.

 

The man watched them.

 

Entering that debilitated hall was like entering a certain nursery rhyme. The crooked man with his crooked house and crooked cat, to be exact. And just like in the little haunting poem, the hall was crooked, the stairs, so narrow and thin like a spider’s leg, were crooked as well. The windows that did not look to the outside but instead into other, smaller, crooked rooms, were crooked as well, and so dusty that no light shone through. The little table beside the door was crooked, the dusty pictures and whirring instruments as well. Looking up, the ceiling seemed to stretch to infinity.

 

“Now that you've trespassed into my home, Poe, I don't suppose you'll be wanting to leave.”

 

The four intruders turned to the man. His face was scrunched up, like a ball of paper reporting bad marks. Mr. Poe coughed.

 

“Well, not before business is done. Mr. Higgsbury, I know how you value your privacy, but it really is just a small favor. Just ‘til I get the papers sorted.”

 

The man continued making the strange face, but nodded anyway. The Baudelaires were not sure whether the man was just finicky or just very indecisive. Despite this, the man motioned them into a small room tucked away in a corner. It appeared to be a kitchen, dirty and ill-kept. Small and claustrophobic, Violet squeezed into one of only two seats, more than a little nervous when it shrieked under her weight.

 

I can think of several hermit huts I've visited and even lived in. Mr. Higgsbury’s home was worse than any of those.

 

Klaus’ eyes watered and he tried not to sneeze. The dust, already so thick in the hall, was almost like a carpet layered with blankets, coating every surface imaginable. Mr. Poe and Mr. Higgsbury appeared to not notice.

 

As Sunny blew bubbles and Klaus tried to not give into a sneezing fit and Violet grimaced at disgust at the grease already staining her dress, Mr. Higgsbury stood awkwardly, like he had forgotten why he had allowed them in. Mr. Poe motioned to the blackened kettle in the corner.

 

A little ‘hah!’ sound, then a clatter as he prepared the tea. Dear readers, I must speak now, for if I do not I fear you will get the wrong idea. Mr. Wilson Higgsbury did _not_ drink tea. He drank coffee, sugared until it hurt with no cream or milk. He also never made anything with the kettle; instead, he heated water in a silver pot and added that into a coffee powder that tasted nothing of coffee. He used the kettle for collecting dirt samples just outside his outhouse. To ask why he used such a device for an already lucrative activity or even why it was in the kitchen is to poison yourself with absurdity. I implore you to never drink Mr. Higgsbury’s tea and to avoid asking why he did such things.

 

The Baudelaires, already so fearful, did not drink the tea. Instead, they stared into the cups they were given and tried not to gag at the foul aroma rising with the blue colored steam. Mr. Poe drank his in one gulp. The fact that he had an iron stomach was the only thing to save his tongue. Of course, every cough afterward expelled blue, odorless gas from his lungs, which dissipated quickly enough and evoked no concern from its source.

 

After the ‘tea’ was passed around, the awkward silence made its return. Mr. Poe coughed. The Baudelaires stared, except Sunny, who was chewing lightly on her fingers. Mr. Higgsbury shuffled his feet and glared periodically at Mr. Poe.

 

“So. What even is your request?” He avoided the Baudelaires gaze, as if he was denying the obvious.

 

Me. Poe grinned, brightening up. “You recall that favor you agreed to --”

 

“What favor --”

 

“-- Well, I need _you_ to watch the Baudelaire orphans for three weeks!”

 

“Three _weeks?!_ Now, I don't believe you know this, but I've got work to do --”

 

“It’s just for three weeks! And….”

 

Mr. Poe smirked. I do not believe Mr. Poe had ever done so before, so it looked more like a constipated horse than a devious human smirk.

 

“You'll get compensation.”

 

Wilson Percival Higgsbury may not have been wanting for much, but everyone enjoys a little bit extra between the fingers. Mr. Higgsbury liked extra insurance, not to mention better equipment. Although I doubt he will ever stop doing things like using a kettle to collect purple dirt.

 

The Baudelaires watched passively, used to being ignored. The man they would be staying with gulped, looked increasingly uncomfortable, squeezed his hands. Mr. Poe continued making a constipated expression.

 

Finally, Mr. Higgsbury caved. Here, caved means to “give into impulses and outside pressure.” It is often reserved for those too uncomfortable for natural society or for those too softhearted to avoid being taken advantage of. Mr. Higgsbury was a perfect example of one of these.

 

“Well then, if that is all, I really have to return to the bank - I fear that my promotion is in jeopardy. Good bye, Baudelaire orphans!”

 

With those final words, Mr. Poe exited stage left, leaving a very overwhelmed and harassed scientist and three unnerved children.

 

* * *

 

Wilson swore and tried not to sweat. Please, gods, don't let him sweat!

 

The three children - and he _still_ didn't know who they even were - stared at him with round eyes and furrowed brows. He tried not to feel too embarrassed, and when that failed he tried not to let his irritation at their blasted judgement show.

 

But they continued staring at him, and he continued sweating through his gloves, and he really should throw out that tea and go back to work and -

 

“Where are we sleeping?” The oldest - or, at least, who he believed was the oldest - said, rising from her seat. The baby in her arms struck his attention, and suddenly he was seized by a cold dread.

 

“I was really not expecting anybody over, especially not for three whole weeks. I am a very busy person, so I'll just…. Show you the spare rooms.”

 

With those words, he turned away from those too familiar stares and tried not to think about it.

 

He showed them the room his brother usually used, then the spare room he could’ve sworn did not have rats, then went on a scavenger hunt for a half an hour for other choices.

 

Once they wound up back at the front hall (and quite unintentionally), Wilson finally threw his hands up.

 

“I really can't spend anymore time on this, I'm so sorry. Choose one of those rooms I showed you, or find another, I don't mind. There’s an outhouse outside. If you need anything else, please just try to do it yourselves. Don't go wandering into the woods though; there's something I lost out there.”

 

He tried to flee, but that blasted bleeding heart returned with a vengeance. His conscience was already giving him hell for their current living conditions, but there really wasn't anything he could do about that.

 

So he gave in and stole a glance at them. And his mouth spout out the words before he could stop it.

 

“By the way, what are your names?”

 

They shuffled, seemingly surprised at his reproach. He didn't blame them.

 

“I'm Violet, and this is my brother Klaus and sister Sunny. My younger sister was asking earlier where your library is.”

 

He blinked.

 

“Just…. Up the stairs, make a right and go into the second door down that hall.”

 

A pause. Wilson _regretted._

 

He turned again to leave.

 

“We - We didn't get your name either.”

 

Well, Wilson couldn't say he was surprised. It was just like Poe to do that.

 

“I'm Wilson Percival Higgsbury, gentleman scientist. I hope my home will not be too…. Disappointing.”

 

Wilson absconded away.

 

* * *

 

The next few days were strange for the Baudelaires. They slept in separate beds, which was better than what Count Olaf had given them, but the sheets were coated in dust and dirt, offering an uncomfortable surface to rest upon, reminiscent of Lucky Smells Lumbermill. They spent the mornings trying to clean up their room, but only managed to keep their clothes clean. They found a working washing machine, rusted and clunky, but still operational. They also found out why Mr. Higgsbury had an outhouse instead of a bathroom despite having plumbing.

 

Klaus had made the mistake of exploring, and found what appeared to be a bathroom - or what used to be a bathroom. It was overrun with fungus and mold, and Klaus could even see little creatures fighting a massive battle. Violet closed the door before he could be harmed, but before he saw the finale. It was decided that it was best to just use the drafty outhouse.

 

Sunny seemed happy enough once Violet had found an old teething ring. Not much, and quite dirty before it was cleaned, but Violet didn't want Sunny to get sick because she chewed on something strange.

 

Klaus kept to the library after the bathroom incident, content to spend the next three weeks on the dusty - but clean - books in the small, cramped library.

 

Violet, however, was restless.

 

She tried to clean their room, even after Klaus had abandoned the effort. Then she tried to see what the ‘scientist’ was up to.

 

Ever since he had left them to their own devices, they only saw him in the early mornings, getting coffee. He always scampered away without a word, hiding up in the attic. As far as Violet could tell, there were three stories to the house; the bottom level, with its little side rooms and the kitchen, then the second floor, with their room and the library, and then the attic. Violet believed that it held the man’s workshop, for it was where the sounds seemed to originate from.

 

Every night, the Baudelaires were shocked from their light slumber by a rumbling, then a loud yell, then murmuring, then echoes of what could only be a machine. It echoed throughout the house, ringing in their ears at times and falling like satin at others. Sunny fell asleep to it, but Klaus and Violet whispered and tried to guess exactly what it was. No doubt it was a machine. Violet was of the inclination to find out what it was. Klaus, however, just wanted to get through the three weeks and then return to the wonderful daily life the Baudelaires suffered through.

 

Now, you may be wondering, dear reader, why Klaus had no interest in whatever Mr. Higgsbury was getting up to, and why Violet, normally the calm one, was so worried. Well, dear reader, I cannot give you a straightforward answer, for I am not one of the Baudelaire children. I can only recount what occurred to these poor children and the horrible circumstances they faced. Perhaps Klaus was finally relaxing, deep in those science and physics books in that cramped library. Perhaps Violet was unnerved by the man's demeanor and his strange house. Perhaps Violet was just bored and Klaus was just busy. Whatever the reason, this story is still meaningless in its events and still pointless for you to read.

 

On the third day, the already miniscule store of food ran out. Violet had been expecting this; she had cleaned out the pantries in search of food and had thrown out quite a large number of rotten fruit and rusted cans.

 

And so now Violet climbed the stairs, up to the second floor, Klaus following close behind with Sunny in his arms. They could not find the next flight of stairs; instead, they found a hanging latch. With a glance to each other, Violet reached up and unfolded the ladder.

 

The noise, so quiet and like a background sound that usually only rose in the night, swelled out of the aperture like yogurt from a tube. Clanging, crunching, yelling and shouts; Klaus reflexively covered Sunny’s ears, afraid of the volume damaging her fragile ear drums.

 

Violet, with determination set into her soul, began climbing the ladder. Klaus called for her to return, but his voice was drowned out by the sounds of a machine starting up. It stuttered, sputtered, like an old engine trying to revive.

 

Violet pulled herself up, and for the first time saw Mr. Higgsbury’s workshop.

 

It shined, clean unlike the rooms below. Numerous tools cluttered the space, tables covered in litter. A machine - no, The Machine - _breathed_ , swallowing the room, swallowing the house, swallowing Violet and her brother and her sister.

 

The Machine, however, was unimportant in the Baudelaires’ lives. While I have, in fact, seen the abomination myself, I must inform you, dear reader, that no harm comes to the Baudelaires from The Machine. The same cannot be said of Mr. Higgsbury.

 

“What are you kids doing here - can't you see I'm working?”

 

Violet was dragged back down the ladder, and with a thud, the sounds receded from her ears and The Machine was muffled. But Violet could still hear it; she doubted she would ever be deaf to it again.

 

Mr. Higgsbury was livid. His face was twisted, his hands curled so tightly it was a wonder he didn't snap his fingernails. He also smelled quite bad.

 

“What! Could you _possibly_ need?”

 

He flinched, suddenly, like someone was scolding him.

 

“We’re out of food, Mr. Higgsbury. We were hoping that you could go out and get some more.” Klaus hadn't seen The Machine, and was quite annoyed at Mr. Higgsbury’s behavior.

 

“What? No, no, don't call me that. And really? You ran out of food?” He sighed. “And I suppose you want me to go get more. I really wasn't planning this.”

 

He looked at them, eyes heavy with black bags and face greasy with sweat. Sunny kept quiet, but she almost felt concerned.

 

He sighed again. “I can't just leave you here - I've got some very sensitive stuff around that I don't want anyone to touch.” He flinched again, a brief flicker of irritation at the unknown person whom I know nothing about appearing and disappearing on his face.

 

He glanced at each of them, carefully analyzing their faces. He seemed to see something, something that confirmed his suspicions.

 

“I'll go get the car.”

 

* * *

 

Wilson Percival Higgsbury was done.

 

He was tired and he was irritable, and to be frank, he just wanted to get away for a while. Yes, yes, how surprising, Wilson the Smelly Hermit is finally leaving his house for the first time in months. Well, gloat all you like, because it's not going to happen again any time soon!

 

Wilson hadn't driven since his last food run, and his car had clearly suffered. An older model, it was buried under leaves in the back of the house. It had fuel, and it did start, but it made worrying clunking sounds every now and then.

 

They all piled in, Sunny held close to Violet and Klaus huddled close to her. Wilson snorted at them, then began the long drive to the nearby town.

 

Wilson, of course, knew where the secret paths were. He had made them, after all! While giant trees and a disappearing road deterred people (except Poe), they were a bugger to drive around and through. So he made secret passages.

 

Of course, that didn't change the discomfort and claustrophobia Wilson was experiencing. He could _feel_ their stares, picking his skin apart. After fifteen minutes, he was soaked through with sweat.

 

Without thought, he turned the radio on.

 

Big mistake.

 

Maxwell's voice came rolling out, and Wilson stiffened.

 

“Why are you driving these insipid children to the town? It's not like they can't drive themselves, after all! You need to finish The Machine - don't you _want_ to finish it, Mr. Higgsbury?”

 

Wilson's grip tightened on the steering wheel. He can't answer right now, just go away!

 

“Hahaha, I'm not going away until you finish The Machine, pal! You made the deal, now _follow through!”_

 

There was a hand on his throat there was a hand on his throat there was -

 

“I… I think you missed a turn, Mr. Higgsbury.”

 

Wilson shuddered. His grip had gone lax, but he tightened his fingers and took the turn.

 

They couldn't hear him. Nobody could except Wilson. Was he just going crazy? But then, why was he even building that horrible machine?

 

Oh, what did it matter. At least he had motivation for something, even if he was practically being threatened.

 

“I've told you, please just call me Wilson. Calling me ‘Mr. Higgsbury’ is just - just strange.”

 

He turned the radio off.

 

After another long, uncomfortable silence, in which Wilson resisted, with all his heart, turning right around, they finally entered the town.

 

It was a little peaceful piece of rural life, and the townsfolk always left him alone - for the most part. He had heard the ridiculous rumors, but only the children tried anything, so he didn't worry.

 

He rolled up to the grocery store, parking and breathing a shallow sigh of relief.

 

“Now,  you have a list of things you want, right? I'll just give you some money and you can buy whatever.”

 

They left in a hurry after he handed them a thick stack of bills, and he honestly didn't blame them.

 

He relaxed in his seat, and resisted the urge to turn on the radio again. No matter how much he wanted to explain himself, he knew Maxwell would take none of it. Somehow, someway, he'd convince Wilson to leave the children in the store, to come-back-later-but-actually-not.

 

Then there was a rapping at his window. He looked up, expecting a child, whether they be one of the townsfolk or a Baudelaire.

 

Instead, there was a strange man.

 

Tall enough to have to stoop to view inside his window, with a grin splitting his angular face in half. Shiny eyes glowed, his hair long and messy. He wore baggy trousers and an even baggier shirt.

 

Wilson unrolled the window, nervous and concerned. As soon as the window was down, the man slumped forward into the vehicle.

 

Wilson leaned away.

 

“I have heard you are quite the scientist, Mr. Higgsbury - and I love science!”

 

Wilson didn’t stop to think - he could already feel his face warming.

 

“You love Science? Are you new here?”

 

“Oh no, I was just passing through! But I am looking for a place to stay for the time being --”

 

Instantly, Wilson deflated.

 

“I’m sorry, my good fellow, but I’ve already got people over and I’ve already set back my current project. I’m afraid you’ll have to find someone else.”

 

The stranger frowned, his shiny eyes glowing even brighter. Wilson began to feel a creeping suspicion. This person had just said something that he liked, then said he needed a place to stay. Perhaps it was better that he had real excuses - Wilson may be good at avoiding things, but he was not the best liar.

 

The man folded himself out of the window, sighing. Wilson, still suspicious but almost guilty, got out of the car.

 

“I know of a good cafe nearby; I could get you a coffee and maybe one of the locals can take you in.”

 

Wilson hoped they hadn’t seen the stranger conversing with him - it would not be good for the stranger’s chances of finding an abode.

 

“Mr. Higgsbury!”

 

Did someone call his name just now?

 

“WILSON!”

 

Oh! Someone had!

 

He turned around just in time to see two children running full speed toward him, one holding Sunny tightly and another holding several large bags.

 

“That’s - that’s -”

 

“That’s Count Olaf!”

 

“Thusie!”

 

Three clammering children assaulted his senses, and Wilson resisted yelling.

“Calm down, all of you!”

 

Klaus and Sunny quieted quickly, but Violet continued.

 

“That man is Count Olaf!”

 

“Who’s Count Olaf?”

 

Klaus pointed. The man made a gesture as if to say, ‘Who? Me?’

 

“No, _who_ is Count Olaf?”

 

Violet’s expression crumpled.

 

Klaus glared and said, “He’s the man who killed our parents and tried to steal our fortune!”

 

Now Wilson was even more confused.

  
“What fortune? You have a fortune? Wait - your parents are _dead?_ And this man - wait, where’d he go?”

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh, I hope this was good? I tried my hardest to capture Snicket's commentary, but I probably overdid it at some points and underdid it at others.
> 
> You probably noticed, but to let you know: I've barely read the books! I've read the first one and a little bit of the fourth, but most of what I know comes from miscellaneous web searches and the Netflix TV series.
> 
> Also it took 4 days to post this. Four! I finished writing the first chap on Wednesday/Thursday, but took forever to post it!
> 
> This was a random idea, so it is a little bit weird. I probably got the characters all ooc so I'm sorry about that, and the events are fairly out there, even for these two fandoms.


End file.
